Out of the Cold (4 page)

Instead, he started stuffing his pockets with cookies.

“Excuse me,” I said, “but I don't think you're allowed to do that.”

He stuffed more cookies into his pockets.

“
Excuse me
,” I said again. I was thinking about all of the people who came to the shelter for dinner every day. They probably looked forward to their cookies. “Sorry, but you can't take those.”

I started toward him—and stopped abruptly when he spun around to face me, his fists raised like a boxer. At first I thought it was kind of funny—this old man trying to scare me so that he could grab some cookies, just like a little kid. Then I saw the wild look in his eyes.

He kept his fists up and stared belligerently at me. Then he took a step toward me.

I backed away. As soon as I did, he shuffled over to the counter on the other side of the kitchen where Betty had been cutting sandwiches in half and wrapping them in plastic. The knife she had been using was lying on a cutting board next to a bowl of shelled hardboiled eggs. The old man's hand edged toward it. I glanced around frantically. Where was Betty? She must have finished her cigarette. She'd know how to handle this.

The kitchen door opened. But it wasn't Betty. It was Ben Logan.

“Look, I've been thinking—” He looked from me to the old man, who had grabbed not the knife but a hardboiled egg, and was stuffing it whole into his mouth. Ben shook his head. “Mr. Duffy, you're not supposed to be in here,” he said patiently. He walked up to the old man and touched his arm. “Come on. Let's get you out of here before Betty comes back. You know what she's like when she finds people in her kitchen who aren't supposed to be here.”

Ben tugged on Mr. Duffy's arm. I flinched as I pictured the old man whirling around and punching him in the nose or, worse, grabbing the knife. But instead, Mr. Duffy allowed Ben to lead him to the kitchen door. Before they got there, Betty came through the door, unbuttoning her jacket. She shook her head when she saw the old man.

“What have you been up to, Mr. Duffy?” she said. When he didn't answer, she glanced at Ben, who merely shrugged. “Do I have to go through your pockets, Mr. Duffy?” Betty said.

Mr. Duffy stared at the floor. He didn't protest—he didn't even move—when Betty thrust a hand into one of his pockets.

“Mr. Duffy,” she said, sounding as patient as Ben had, “you've been coming here long enough to know that there are only enough cookies to go around if everyone takes no more than his fair share.” She pulled cookies out of one coat pocket and then another, and put them on the counter in a small heap. She shook her head again.

“That's sixteen cookies, Mr. Duffy. Do you know what Mr. Donovan would do if he found out you'd taken sixteen cookies?”

Mr. Duffy raised his head to look directly at her. He no longer seemed dangerous. He smiled, almost as if he were trying to charm her. It worked. She sighed, gave him two cookies—one oatmeal raisin and one chocolate chip—and said, “Go along with Ben. And Ben? There's no need to mention this to anyone, okay?”

Ben nodded. Mr. Duffy followed him out of the kitchen.

“What
would
Mr. Donovan do if he found out?” I said.

“He'd probably bar him from the shelter for a couple of days,” Betty said. “Art tries to be understanding. We all do. Most of the people who use our services have a lot of problems, but most of them are reasonably well behaved. A few, however, sometimes act impulsively.” From the way Betty had spoken to Mr. Duffy, I guessed he fit into the latter group. “There are two things we can't put up with—theft of shelter property, and violence. Everyone knows the rules and everyone knows why the rules are important.” She looked at the cookies she had confiscated and, with a sigh, swept them into the garbage. “It's a waste, I know. Once he'd taken them, we might just as well have let him keep them, for all the good they'll do anyone else. But rules are rules, and it's not fair to let one person get away with raiding the kitchen.”

  .    .    .

“Is there anything else I can do?” I said after I had packed the last cookie into one of the huge plastic bins Betty had set out.

“I'd say you've done more than enough for one day,” Betty said. “You must be tired.”

She was right. My feet hurt and my back ached from standing for hours. I washed my hands one final time, hung up my apron, and went to look for my jacket. I stopped on my way out to say goodbye to Art Donovan.

“Thanks for your help today, Robyn,” he said. “I hope Betty didn't work you too hard.”

“I'm glad I could help,” I said. But I was already picturing myself soaking in a deep, hot bubble bath. “Billy is always saying that you need more volunteers.”

“Billy's right,” Art said. “In fact, I don't suppose you'd have any free time tomorrow?”

“Well, I ...” I didn't have any
definite
plans.

“We'll have more volunteers than we can handle come Christmas,” he said. “But right now we're really shorthanded. There are a couple of people who usually help Betty in the kitchen, but one of them is out of town on a family emergency and the other one can't make it in either. What do you say?”

What could I say? I find it next to impossible to refuse when someone asks me for a favor.

“Terrific,” Art said. “Wait a minute.” He disap-peared into a small office. When he returned, he handed me a sheet of paper. “Fill this out and bring it back with you tomorrow,” he said. “It's a volunteer information form. We ask all volunteers to fill one out—basic personal information, who we should contact in case of emergency, that kind of thing. Okay?”

I nodded.

“Great,” he said. “We'll see you tomorrow, then.”

Twenty-four hours later, I was promising myself that I would learn how to say no.

CHAPTER
THREE

B

illy was busy with his animal rights organization the next day, so he couldn't go to the homeless shelter. Morgan was still sick—at least, that's what she told me in a whispery, poor-me-I've-got-a-sore-throat voice. So once again I headed downtown alone. And, wouldn't you know it, the first person I saw when I entered the church hall was Ben Logan. He was talking to the scruffy young guy I'd given money to. The guy pointed at me and said something to Ben, then put his hand up to cover his mouth. I could tell he was laughing. Ben laughed too and handed him something. I felt my cheeks burn. As I passed them, Ben said, “I didn't think you'd be back.”

“I know,” I said, without stopping. “You thought I was a two-four.” I went directly into the kitchen, where Betty put me to work making and wrapping sandwiches. Ben showed up a few minutes later. I ignored him.

“Hey, come on,” he said. “You not going to talk to me?”

“I saw you laughing at me,” I said.

“Laughing at you?” He gave me a baffled look.

“Just now,” I said. “With that other guy.”

“We weren't laughing at you.”

“He pointed at me.”

“He pointed at your boots.”

Again with the boots. “He doesn't like them either, huh?”

“He didn't say,” Ben said. “But they're how he recognized you.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Andrew never makes eye contact when he's asking for change. But he knows his footwear. Yesterday, when I was showing you around, he recognized your boots. He says you gave him money.”

“And?” I said.

“And what?”

“What's so funny about my boots?”

“Nothing.”

“You both laughed.”

“True. But Andrew wasn't laughing at you. He was laughing at
me
.”

“At you?” Did he actually expect me to believe that?

Ben shifted awkwardly.

“Andrew told me yesterday that I'm more prejudiced than some of the people who pass him on the street. He said they judge him by how he looks and that I did the same thing to you. He bet me that you weren't a twofour and that you'd be back.”

“He did?”

Ben nodded.

“And he was right. Andrew enjoys being right. That's why he was laughing. Look, I'm sorry about the way I acted. I didn't know you were a friend of Billy's. And it's obvious you're not a twofour. At the very least, you're a four-eight.” He grinned. When I just stared at him, he said, “Get it?”

“I get it,” I said.

“So what do you say? Friends?”

After the way he had treated me?

“Okay, I guess I deserve that,” he said. “I was kind of obnoxious.”

“Kind of?”

“I thought...well, you already know what I thought. If we can't be friends, can we at least agree not to be enemies? That way I might have a shot at convincing you what a great guy I really am.”

Well, he was trying hard enough. And not only did he seem sincere, but he wasn't afraid to admit he was wrong. And it was obvious he thought highly of Billy. I relented just a little.

“I guess I could live with that,” I said.

His face lit up, and I began to think he might not be so bad after all.

  .    .    .

An hour later, I had made a couple dozen loaves' worth of sandwiches—egg, peanut butter, tuna—and I was about to start on some ham and cheese when Betty was summoned to a meeting with Art Donovan.

A few minutes later after she'd left, while I was spreading mustard on the bread I had laid out on the counter, someone darted through the kitchen door and disappeared into the basement.

I hesitated for a moment. Betty had told me that no one was allowed in the basement. I went to the top of the stairs.

“Hello?” I called. “Betty, is that you?”

No answer.

I heard a metallic
clunk
from some-where down below. It sounded like someone was stacking cans of food. It had to be Betty. But why hadn't she answered? I started down the stairs. When I got to the bottom, I saw a man in a long, tattered overcoat, kneeling at the shelves that covered a wall. Mr. Duffy. He was burrowing into a cardboard box.

“Excuse me,” I said. After the previous day, I was a little afraid of him, so I stood well back. “You're not supposed to be down here.”

Duffy ignored me. He dipped into the box and started pulling out cans of peaches. He stuffed two into each of his coat pockets. I told myself to be understanding. He was homeless, and he was obviously hungry. But so was everyone else who used the shelter. Stealing from the storeroom was the same as stealing from all of the people who relied on the shelter for meals. It was against the rules. And hadn't Betty said that rules were rules? I remembered how she had handled the situation the day before. She had been patient, but firm.

“Mr. Duffy,” I said, approaching him slowly. “You can't take those.”

Duffy didn't react to me the way he had to Betty. He jumped to his feet and whirled around to face me. The expression on his scarred face was hostile.

“Mr. Duffy, please,” I said. It was all I had the chance to say. He looked at me, then at the stairs behind me. Then he rushed at me and pushed me hard, throwing me off balance. I reeled backward, stumbled over a box on the floor, and started to fall. My hands scrabbled for something to grab onto but didn't connect with anything. I landed with a crash. My head snapped back and hit the floor. I felt something sharp against the side of my face, close to my ear. For a moment I lay dazed on the concrete floor.

Duffy stood over me, his coat pockets bulging, a can of peaches in each raised hand. I cringed, terrified that he was going to hurl the cans at me. But he didn't. Instead, he stepped over me and thumped up the wooden stairs to the kitchen.

My head hurt. I felt disoriented, but I forced myself to sit up. The side of my face burned. I had to grip the wooden banister with both hands to steady myself as I staggered up the stairs. By the time I got to the top, Mr. Duffy was gone. Ben bustled through the kitchen door carrying a coffeepot. He stopped when he saw me and gave me a peculiar look.

“What happened to you?” he said.

“Did you see Mr. Duffy?” I said.

“Mr. Duffy? Why?”

“I caught him in the basement, stealing food. When I tried to stop him, he attacked me.” My legs were trembling. Duffy had really scared me. “Where's Mr. Donovan?” I said.

“I think he's in his office, but—”

I headed for the door.

“Whoa, wait,” Ben said. He caught me by the arm. “You're bleeding.”

“What?” My hand went to the right side of my face. When I pulled it away again there was blood on my fingers. I bent down and twisted my head to see my reflection on the side of the toaster on the counter. Blood was oozing out of what looked like a nasty gash on my face, close to my right ear. It had soaked into the collar of my sweater. I felt faint at the sight of it and reached for the counter as my knees began to wobble.